


Inamorata

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Brock Rumlow's Woman Problem, Cunnilingus, F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, M/M, Natasha Romanov is a Giant Troll, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, brock rumlow's fragile masculinity, hot power top jack rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4914037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Rollins gets hit by a sex-swap ray while out on a mission. Stark Industries is on the case, but while they figure out a way to turn him back, Brock Rumlow has to figure out how to live with a 6' 2" woman with a bad temper, a vicious arm bar and zero tolerance for being called a bitch.</p><p>It's an educational sort of a month.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inamorata

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [samtalksfunny](http://samtalksfunny.tumblr.com) for a speedy and thorough beta, and to my peeps [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com) for cheerleading as this fic spiralled out of control.

Jack was first through the door after he blew the charge, so nobody quite realised what had happened until later. All Brock saw was a flash of green light, then a pulse as all the lights in the building dimmed momentarily.

Erikson and Adams followed Jack in.

Erikson yelled, ‘Man down!’

Sure enough, Jack was lying on the floor like he’d been punched by Iron Man. By the time Brock reached Jack’s side, he was already moving, rolling onto one hip with a grunt and pushing himself up on one elbow. There was no blood that Brock could see, and anyhow, Jack wasn’t stupid enough to fling himself around after a bad knock.

‘You okay?’ Brock asked, and Jack nodded and then winced, hand to his chest.

‘Nothing serious,’ said Jack. ‘One of those rays went off.’ He waved a hand towards the looming machines in the centre of the room. Every two-bit villain tried ray guns at some point, but mostly they worked instantly. Most of STRIKE had caught a zap or two. The knock-off Hulk rays that everyone was desperately trying to imitate usually, at best, just made you really angry for a while, although a rookie had once developed a moderate case of radiation poisoning. An abortive attempt at a shrink ray had misfired a few months ago, and Goodrich ended up with tiny baby hands for an hour, which STRIKE had universally agreed was hilarious. Unofficial STRIKE policy was now that if you got zapped, everyone laughed at you, but you didn’t have to buy your own drinks at the next bar trip, so really everybody won.

Still, Jack looked pained, folded over on his knees with his hand still pressed to his chest. Holloway brought a medkit but Jack waved it away, refused with a voice somehow cracking and lifting and he looked off, somehow, muscles rippling under his skin in an unnatural way. Brock was on the point of ordering a tranq shot prepared in case Jack hulked out, but then Jack groaned through his teeth and slumped forward, limp and barely conscious. Erikson grabbed his shoulders and rolled him onto his back, and Jack cracked his eyes open and cautiously took in a deep breath.

‘What the hell happened?’ he asked, in a curious smooth, alto voice. There was a long silence and Brock felt his mouth open and close like a fish. In the event, it was Petrov who managed to say it.

‘Fuck,’ the Russian said, the word sounding odd in his mouth. ‘Fuck, Rollins. You got tits.’

* * *

‘Well,’ said the scrawny, freckled doctor, finally standing and tugging his too-large coat straight. ‘I’ve never seen this in the flesh before. It’s fascinating.’

‘Fascinating,’ Jack repeated flatly.

‘It is!’ The doctor enthused, oblivious to the mood in the examination room. Jack was lying on the bed, Brock leaning against the wall. They were an open secret, he and Jack, and Brock was sure that he was doing a poor job of hiding his desire to grab the skinny idiot and shake him. Still, the doctor rattled on. ‘I mean, I’ve read about it, of course – the potential. AIM’s on the cusp, SoraTech can almost do it drug-aided… but as far as I can tell, this is perfect.’

‘Perfect,’ said Jack. He shifted, pulling down the corner of his paper gown. Brock had been dismissed for the physical, but the doctor’s implication – Brock tried not to stare at Jack’s crotch. ‘Is it permanent?’ Jack asked.

‘Hard to say, but it looks reasonably stable after six hours, which is impressive. If it _is_ permanent, it’s an unprecedented leap forward in this technology.’ Brock could hear Jack’s teeth grinding. The doctor snatched up his notes and made for the door. ‘Unprecedented!’ he repeated. ‘I must call Command immediately.’ The slip – _Command_ , for Hydra Command – was unforgivable even in his excitement, but he was gone before Brock could grab him back. He scurried away to make his phone call, and shortly thereafter they were unceremoniously ousted from the examination room by a busy nurse, so abruptly that Jack was still doing up his belt and shoelaces.

Brock blew out a long breath. They stood in the hallway, for want of a better place to loiter. Jack slouched against the opposite wall and examined his fingernails. Brock gazed across from under his eyelashes. Jack hadn’t lost an inch in height and he was still big, broad. If his shoulders were a little narrower and his waist more defined, he was bigger in the hips and thighs. Brock pictured Jack trying out Romanoff’s signature move, choking a guy out with his legs. His – _Jesus_ – his tits would be generous on a short woman but his chest was still expansive and muscular; he looked tough, like he should be out on a ranch or something. Perhaps behind the bar in an old saloon. No bra – where would he have found one? – and Brock could see his nipples through his shirt, tenting slightly but too loose in the shoulders.

‘Well?’ Jack said, looking challengingly across the three steps that separated them. Brock started and opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor from earlier, accompanied by an older man in professorial street clothes with the demeanour of an aging hippie.

‘Dr Lloyd,’ the hippie guy said, extended a hand first to Jack and then to Brock. ‘I’m the psychologist on duty tonight. I specialise in trauma and post-traumatic stress. I’m here to have a chat with you, Jack, and help you to adjust to this change.’

‘That was quick,’ Jack snorted, crossing his arms. ‘Usually you get a day or so before they can rustle someone up to analyse you.’

‘It’s a rather unique situation,’ Dr Lloyd said apologetically, ‘and I hadn’t packed up to go home, yet.’ He herded Jack into a side room.

‘It had better be a temporary fucking situation,’ Jack replied. Brock hovered in the hallway, until Lloyd indicated him with a polite, inclusive gesture.

‘Is your Commander joining us?’ Lloyd’s face looked perfectly bland, but the tiny pause before ‘Commander’ made the word sound like ‘partner.’ Jack made the smallest gesture with his head; enough for Brock, who followed them in and perched awkwardly in the chair closest to the door.

They all settled, chairs creaked and clothing rustling. There was a short silence. Lloyd was gathering himself, taking up his notebook and a slim, silver mechanical pencil and arranging his face into calm professionalism.

‘So,’ he said, leaning in slightly. Brock had had enough espionage training to know that Lloyd’s posture was carefully designed to make his patients comfortable. Jack had been through the exact same training. He looked about as fooled by Lloyd’s act as Brock was. ‘Jack, I know that Dr Addison has given you a clean bill of health, but let me ask you: how are you feeling?’ Jack’s snort was the furthest thing imaginable from ladylike. Brock had been expecting the question, and the reaction. Lloyd, to his credit, kept trying for another few minutes. Was Jack comfortable using his name, or did he want to think about adopting something different? Would he like to put in for time off? Was there anything that SHIELD could do, as an organisation, to make him feel more comfortable? Had he - and Lloyd understood that this was early days yet - had he considered the steps he might take if this were permanent? Did he want to see a _lady_ psychologist for counselling or advice?

Jack suffered the questions with bad grace, dismissing most of them and sarcastically replying to others. He was tired. Brock could tell. Jack rarely let it show, but it had been a tough, two-day mission, and getting zapped was always something that needed to be slept off. There was a hint of weariness in the set of his shoulders, though, and his patience always wore thinnest when he needed to sleep.

‘All right,’ said Brock, in his command voice, standing up. ‘Doctor, I think a good meal and sleep is what he needs right now.’ Lloyd looked over at him calmly.

‘Okay, Commander. You know your soldiers.’ He turned to Jack. ‘If you need to talk, you can reach me here.’ He handed over a little card. Jack took it reluctantly, shoving it into a pocket, and turned to leave with the barest handshake for the psychiatrist.

‘Such fuckin’ nonsense,’ said Jack, before the door had even closed behind them. He cracked a huge yawn and rubbed at the back of his neck. Brock shrugged.

‘Home?’ he asked, lost as to what else to suggest. The whole afternoon had been too bizarre for words. He wanted something to eat - there was some leftover beef in the fridge and his stomach growled as he thought about a thick sandwich - and then he wanted to go to bed and wake up to a normal life.

* * *

 They chewed mechanically, silently. The beef was a little dry, but Brock opened up his sandwich and slathered on some mustard; he was hungry enough that he didn’t particularly care. They washed it down with coffee. The good coffee, the expensive stuff that they usually kept for weekends off when they were awake enough to appreciate it. Brock had added sugar and cream to Jack’s, even though he preferred it black. On the first sip he rolled his eyes across the table at Brock, but he drank it down readily enough - the sugar would do him good, and he was smart enough to know it, and suffer the taste. Brock cleared his throat and crumbled the last crust of bread on his plate.

‘I can, uh. I can sleep on the couch,’ he offered, not meeting Jack’s eye. ‘If you’re more comfortable.’

‘You sound like that shrink,’ said Jack.

‘I don’t want it to be weird.’

‘It’s already weird, Brock,’ said Jack, which was true.

‘Fine,’ Brock said, ‘but, still.’

‘Sleep in the goddamn bed,’ said Jack, in a tone that brooked no argument. He stacked their plates and finished his coffee with a grimace, then he poured himself a glass of tap water and swallowed it down. The way his head was tipped back showed off the new, sleek smoothness of his throat, no Adam’s apple or stubble breaking its long line. Brock’s mouth was suddenly dry, his own throat suddenly tight. He could feel a flicker of a pulse in his neck, beating out his excitement, his trepidation. Jack turned at the kitchen door.

‘Coming?’ he asked.

Brock followed him up the narrow stairs, watching the way his hips moved. Jack detoured to the bathroom, for once closing the door. Brock heard him brush his teeth, and then there was the sound of running water. Then silence. Eventually, the toilet flushed and Jack came into the bedroom, stripping mechanically. His shirt got tangled up, hooked up under his breasts until Jack cursed and bent himself double, backing out of it like a cat stuck in a bag. Then his pants presented a problem, and he wriggled out of them, kicked them away with his socks until he was standing there in just his boxer briefs from the morning, plain and navy blue. They sagged, now, at the crotch, and the elastic sat strangely against his new, curved hips; by contrast, his thighs and buttocks filled them out obscenely, like something from a porno banner ad. _Hot girls in your area! Chat with real chicks tonight!_ Jack looked down at his body. His face was in shadow, so Brock couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He just watched as Jack’s gaze ran up his legs, their lightly-haired, neat calves and swelling thighs, lingered on his crotch for a moment and then moved on. Jack ran his hands over his tits.

‘Huh,’ he said as if to himself, then looked at Brock, still cupping them. ‘You’d think they’d be bigger, with how tall I am.’ He turned and looked at himself in the mirror, half-turning to see his ass and the deep dip of his back.

‘You’ve got dimples,’ Brock said. Jack had; two neat indents on his lower back. Brock had to resist the temptation to get out of bed and press his thumbs into them, try to span Jack’s lower back with his hands.

‘Christ,’ Jack said. ‘This is too fucking weird.’

‘How does it… feel?’ Brock said. Jack gave a sharp laugh, higher than usual. He gestured a little wildly, up and down his body.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I got all this shit--’ he gestured again and then threw his hands up, defeated. ‘Who cares?’ he asked, rhetorically. ‘Shove over. I’m coming to bed. Better hope this wears off by tomorrow morning.’

‘Better hope,’ repeated Brock mindlessly, as Jack slid between the sheets, close enough that Brock could feel his body heat but not close enough to touch skin-to-skin. Jack’s eyes closed immediately his head touched the pillow, and within minutes he was near enough to sleeping that Brock didn’t want to wake him. Even if Jack had been awake, Brock wasn’t sure that he could have made himself stretch out a hand and touch him.

* * *

 Despite the previous day, Brock managed to sleep through the night. He awoke to Jack whistling in the shower as he always did, and for a moment Brock thought that perhaps the whole woman thing had been a bizarre dream. Jack’s whistle wasn’t quite the same, though, just a little off. And the rest came trickling back; Jack’s shirt hanging haphazardly over the nightstand where he’d backed out of it and flicked it away. The energetic young Hydra doctor, and the tedious SHIELD psych guy. The ray; Petrov’s shock. Perhaps most unnervingly, seeing Jack thrown off course, watching him scrutinise his new, feminine shape in the mirror and throw up his hands in confusion.

Jack had, for the better part of a decade and a half, been more of a compass than Brock liked to admit - to himself, or anyone else. Few men had his unflinching resolve in the field, or his easy confidence out of it. Even when the course of action wasn’t clear, Jack dared to commit and, in committing, made Brock braver too. Brock knew that he was good at what he did, but he was better at doing it when Jack was backing him up. Jack took care of the mundane details. He followed through on Brock’s orders. He whipped rookies into shape, dealt with the quartermaster’s complaints, arranged safehouses, ensured that everything ran as planned. Really, all Brock had to do was give an order and Jack would see it carried out.

To see Jack visibly uncomfortable, unsure of how to proceed, however briefly, was immediately and viscerally worrying for Brock. As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to Jack whistle and slam the shower door, he felt a palpable knot of anxiety behind his solar plexus. Authority was a tricky thing, in elite units. How would the men react to Jack now? Could he keep up with the physical standards? And SHIELD; surely there’d be forms to fill in about all this, to make it difficult. Brock thought of the amount of paperwork he filled in for everything under the sun on a weekly basis and cringed. There were so many things to think about. And what if - what if Jack couldn’t take care of them? Brock very carefully did not consider Jack’s new body. He very assiduously avoided all thought of intimacy, or sex, or what Jack looked like right now, wet and soapy under the shower spray. What the water might look like as it trickled down the arch of his back, over his ass. Would his tits bounce when he ran?

‘Miles away?’ Jack asked suddenly, making Brock jump. He had his towel wrapped over his hips as always, and his wet hair was curling around his ears and his cheekbones.

‘Yeah,’ he said, and he rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom to evade further questioning.

He jerked off in the shower, quick and functional, not thinking about anything in particular. To his intense relief, when he came downstairs Jack was dressed and sitting at the kitchen table.  

‘Coffee?’ Jack asked, holding up a mug. His fingers were long and slim and slightly squared at the end, his nail beds arched and smooth and pale. Brock nodded and sat down at the table, helped himself to toast and eggs. Added a lot of pepper and, as usual, Jack made a disgusted face and took a long swallow of coffee, as if to wash out the bad taste. ‘Right,’ he said as he finished the last of his breakfast. ‘The new kids.’

‘Johnson and…’ The name eluded Brock for a minute.

‘Holloway,’ supplied Jack. ‘Are we keeping them?’

‘Johnson, yes. Holloway… he’s passable. He’ll do. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of great options in the pipeline right now.’

‘But his attitude.’

‘His shitty fucking attitude,’ agreed Brock, running a crust of toast around his plate to pick up the stray bits of egg. He wanted to prolong breakfast, and the conversation; their relentless normality was comforting. ‘I mean, he’s okay most of the time but then he’ll just come out with this bullshit.’

‘I can handle him,’ Jack shrugged. ‘Can probably beat that out of him, in time.’

 _Can you, though?_ Brock wanted to say. _Can you, now?_ His skepticism must have shown on his face because Jack put down his knife and fork very slowly and sighed.

‘We’re going to work,’ he said levelly. ‘And I’m going to do my goddamn job. Because if I don’t, Holloway’s going to run you into the ground, and Westfahl’s going to set himself on fire, and I’m going to go insane sitting around at home.’

‘But--’ started Brock, as if anyone could sway Jack to not do something he’d set his mind on. Jack swept out of the kitchen, and to the car, and before Brock could dig his heels in Jack was pulling out the driveway with a screech of tires. They didn’t talk much on the way to work, nor as they rode the elevator up to the third floor, nor as they mechanically tramped from the elevator to the locker rooms with their shoes ringing on the floor.

‘Wait,’ Brock said, pulling up short in front of the locker room door. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To work,’ said Jack, slowly, as if Brock was simple. ‘Where I go every morning.’

‘But you can’t,’ Brock said in a low hiss. He gestured to the little male stick figure on the door, and then to Jack’s body. ‘You’re a—you’re–’ Jack rolled his eyes and shoved past Brock into the locker room. From the corridor, Brock heard an anguished squawk that might have been Westfahl. He followed Jack in onto a diorama of burly STRIKE members frozen in various stages of undress and staring at Jack. Unconcerned, Jack stalked to his locker and unlocked it with a rattle that echoed in the silence.

‘You really should—’ one of the new kids began, and Jack turned.

‘Should?’ he said, dangerously.

‘There _is_ a women’s locker room,’ Westfahl said, his voice rising to a squeak as Jack pulled off his shirt, crossing his hands at the hem to get it over his tits. He had on a dark grey sports bra with an orange flash on each side.

‘This is my locker,’ Jack replied, pulling off his belt with a snap.

‘But you’re—’

‘Shut the fuck up, Westfahl,’ said Jack without particular venom, shucking off his jeans and rooting in his locker for his tac pants. ‘Anyone’d think you never saw tits before.’

‘Probably he hasn’t,’ called Petrov in his accented English, and there was a ripple of chuckles. Just like that, the spell was broken and the conversation devolved into a round of merciless ragging on Westfahl. By the time they were filing out, Alpha to training and the other teams to some kind of tedious briefing, everyone had all but forgotten Jack.

‘See?’ Jack said to Brock with a shrug. ‘Nobody cares. Except you.’

* * *

 Jack called his mother every week if work allowed and got out to his hometown once or twice a year to visit. Brock respected that – envied it, even. It wasn’t like he gave a shit about what was left of his own family, but Jack’s half-hour chats with his mother had a quiet, warm quality to them that seemed important. And made him jealous in a creeping, shameful sort of a way, although Brock tried not to think about that. Tonight Jack had settled in his usual chair, but he was curled up, feet tucked onto the seat, rather than sprawled with one leg over the chair arm.

‘Hi, mom,’ he said into his cellphone, almost tentatively. ‘It’s Jack.’ There was a long silence. ‘Yeah, it’s me – something happened. At work. A science lab, an accident – no, I’m all right, it’s – yeah, hang on, let me –’ he broke off, waited patiently and raised his eyebrows at Brock, who was loitering by the door. He nodded towards the sofa and Brock came over, although he usually let Jack have his privacy. ‘Mom, I do secret government work with a bunch of superheroes – weird shit happens a lot – look, I’m putting you on speaker so Brock can talk to you. So you know everything’s fine.’ Jack pressed the button on the side of his phone and rested it on the chair arm so they could both lean over it.

‘Brock?’ Jack’s mom said. ‘Are you there?’

‘Hello, Debra,’ replied Brock, awkward as always in the face of her familiarity and her warmth, this woman who he’d never met greeting him easily and readily.

‘Is Jack really…?’

‘Yeah,’ Brock said, ‘it’s, uh, it’s pretty hard to – we shouldn’t even be talking to you about it. But it’s pretty weird.’ There was a long pause on the line, then Debra drew in a shaky breath.

‘Do you know if it’s permanent? Or harmful?’

‘Probably not, to both,’ supplied Jack. ‘They think it’ll be a few weeks to reverse engineer the device. If it doesn’t wear off before then.’

‘Jacqueline,’ Debra said, responding in a non sequitur that had Jack and Brock looking at each other in confusion. ‘I named you for my grandmother, Jacqueline. She went by Jack. Tall woman, used to wear pants, smoke cigarettes, ride like a man. I think there are photos in the attic.’

‘Did you know her?’ Jack asked, curious.

‘Not much. She only had the one child – my mother. They didn’t get along very well.’

‘Why her?’ Jack said. Brock knew, from some vague reference in conversation, that Jack’s father had been a violent sonofabitch and was long dead. No surprise that he wasn’t Jack Jr.

‘I liked her, I think,’ said Debra in a pensive voice. ‘She was hard to get along with, but she carved out her niche in life, long before it was easy for a woman to do it. Actually, I rather think she might have preferred women. She had a lady companion for a long time, you know.’

‘You’re not taking after her much,’ Brock said with a chuckle that bubbled up completely by accident. At the other end of the line, Debra laughed, too. Jack shoved Brock’s shoulder.

‘Find the photos, mom,’ Jack said into the phone. ‘I want to see her.’

It was a strange, three-way conversation and it felt awkward - awkward enough that Jack rang off after a few more minutes. He promised his mother he’d phone again when he knew something, and her almost-tearful reply made Brock want to leave the room. He wanted to hear it all, though, fearful that this might be the only chance he got to glimpse a secret part of Jack’s life. And Jack hadn’t asked him to leave, which he _would_ have, Brock was sure. He found an excuse to be busy for the rest of the evening, sloping off upstairs to read the latest _Guns & Ammo_, even though there was never anything new to him in it.

‘Look,’ Jack said later when he came into the bedroom, phone in hand. He sat down on the edge of the bed and showed Brock the screen. The photo was black and white and creased down the middle, and his mother had taken a picture of it slightly off-centre. Jacqueline had dark hair, pulled back into a tight bun, and the same raw, high-cheekboned look to her as Jack. She wore a white shirt and a dark, heavy-looking blazer over the top, and she was casually holding a rifle over one shoulder. Her smile was crooked, confident, and her eyes creased with sun and weather and laughter lines.

Jack held the photo up next to his face with a grin. ‘It skipped a generation or two,’ he said, miming holding a rifle like the photo. He squinted at his phone and flipped through a few photos. ‘Ah, here.’ He turned the phone around. Jack stood behind his mother, one arm around her and chin resting on her head. She was several inches short of his chin, with a thin, tired-looking face, green eyes like Jack’s and a twist of curly, grey-brown hair pulled over one shoulder. She was smiling, one hand on Jack’s forearm.

‘She looks kind,’ Brock said.

‘She is,’ said Jack. ‘After everything, she is.’

* * *

 Brock peeled off his sweaty shirt almost as soon as they got home. It had been a hot day, and his back had been sticky against the leather car seat all the way back from work. The way Jack’s eyes tracked him didn’t escape his notice.

‘Aren’t you warm?’ Brock asked him, and Jack shrugged.

‘No, actually,’ he said, sounding a little surprised. He bent down to untie his shoelaces with something approaching grace; Brock watched his ass. The smallest frisson of interest rippled through his belly, low-down and almost imperceptible, but there. It felt new. Normally, it was all Brock could do to keep his head in the game with Jack around. Normally, he hardly had time to miss Jack’s hands on him. Jack made sure of that. Normally - well, nothing about this was normal any more, was it?

It had been three days, though, and Brock wanted to get off. And so, he paced across the floor to Jack and, before he could think about it too hard, he grabbed Jack’s hips as he stood up, tugged him backwards hard. His hands fit in the new curve at Jack’s waist, and, with Brock’s boots on, he was tall enough to bury his face in the hair at the nape of Jack’s neck and nip at the skin.

‘Bedtime,’ he said, conclusively making it a statement. Jack didn’t say anything, at first; he didn’t move closer but he didn’t pull away either. Brock rubbed against Jack’s ass, trying to wind himself up. ‘Come on,’ he cajoled. ‘You know what they say  - all work and no play…’ Jack turned in Brock’s arms and looked at Brock through his lashes. Brock thrilled with it, the way Jack seemed to be looking up at him even though there was barely an inch of height separating them, and that in Jack’s favour. Jack opened and closed his hands against Brock’s bare chest for a moment, as if making up his mind. When he moved, he was quicksilver and Brock, who knew him and should have known better, had no time to react. Jack lashed out, pivoting and using his weight to run Brock up against the wall, so hard that the mirror by the front door rattled dangerously on its hook.

‘Nice try,’ he laughed, his teeth very white as he smiled wide, right in Brock’s face. He rested his forearms on the wall, shoved his way into Brock’s personal space, pinning him. His tits pressed against Brock’s chest. Brock scoffed, at first; surely he could take a woman, surely, even one as fit and well-trained as Jack. So he fought, first relaxing into Jack’s hold as if inured to it and then dropping low to shove his shoulder into Jack’s chest and run him back. Jack was waiting for it. He stepped back, dancing on the balls of his bare feet, and then caught Brock by the waist and flipped him onto the floor, face-first.

‘Jesus,’ Brock choked against the floorboards.

His chin and lip stung. That wasn’t surprising. That wasn’t too far away from Jack’s usual methods. But the speed, the strength - Brock hadn’t accounted for it. Jack settled over his hips, straddling him warm and heavy. The sweat prickled and chilled on Brock’s back.

‘What did you think was going to happen?’ Jack said, low and smug into Brock’s left ear. ‘You thought you’d manhandle me a bit and I’d faint into your arms? Beg you to fuck me?’ He chuckled, and his voice was breathy, sultry. Despite their long years together, the ploy worked. Brock hadn’t fucked a woman since back in the army in his 20s, but a deep, smooth woman’s voice - _Jack’s_ voice - purring in his ear had an instant effect and he shifted on the floor to relieve the weight of their bodies on his cock. ‘You’ve been reading too many Harlequins, you have.’

‘Oh, fuck you,’ said Brock, indignant. He twisted, trying to dislodge Jack, but Jack held on with his thighs.

Brock hardly noticed pulling himself up off the floor with Jack’s strong hand in the back of his shirt. He hardly noticed stumbling up the stairs, tripping over his own feet with heart in his throat. Jack pushed him down into the bed without preamble and rolled in after him; grabbed him, rubbed up against him like they were teenagers in the back seat of a car. Jack kissed the same, teeth and tongue and noises deep in his throat, although his voice was different. His body was softer, just a little softer, and Brock couldn’t help but notice the lack of Jack’s hard cock. He had to assume Jack was turned on from the way he pulled their bodies together, the way he kissed all demanding and focused. Jack’s tits against his chest, Jack’s hair unstyled and curling in his fist, the hot, wet bloom of Jack’s breath on his neck, Jack’s smooth face rubbing over his jaw - Brock was lost to it all, erect in his pants but confused, warm and sweating but unsettled in an occasional little shiver down his spine.

He slid a hand up Jack’s shirt, round the curve of his lower back. Jack’s skin was so smooth now, so soft. He could feel, quite clearly, the layer of subcutaneous fat that evened out the hard muscle underneath. His fingers caught on the band of Jack’s bra and he fumbled, trying to figure out its workings, until suddenly it popped open under his hand and Jack snorted a laugh into Brock’s temple and bit his ear in gentle mockery. They fought Jack’s shirt and bra off together, and then Brock remembered he was still in his boots and broke away to kick them off the end of the bed. When he turned back, Jack was pulling down his pants and underwear, arching his hips up off the bed. His hipbones were two little hills, sloping down into the lush, pale curve of his belly. Brock crawled over and pressed his mouth to Jack’s hip, sucking a line of kisses across his lower belly. The way that Jack’s hands found his hair suggested he was on the right track; he inched lower with a nervous flutter in his chest.

Jack had a defined little triangle of pubic hair, now; still blond-brown, but set in sharp relief to the lightly-haired insides of his thighs. Brock nosed over it, pushing Jack’s thighs apart with his hands. Jack smelled like the ocean, clean and salty, or perhaps a little like citrus.

‘Go on,’ Jack told him, his voice husky and tight. His hands tightened in Brock’s hair. ‘Do it.’ It had the flavour of an order. Brock wanted to follow it, wanted to do it. He pressed his lips to Jack’s - he made himself think it - Jack’s cunt, his pussy, tentative and close-mouthed. He was a little wet, and velvet-soft like his cockhead would normally be. The dark, warm musk of his skin was almost-Jack too, familiar enough; Brock opened his mouth and slowly pressed his tongue inside, just a fraction. Jack’s breath hitched and he let his left leg fall open against the bed. Brock watched, entranced, as Jack opened up all red and blood-flushed. He curled his forearm under Jack’s leg so his hand rested over Jack’s hipbone and _this is it, I’m gonna do it_ lapped in a long stroke up Jack’s pussy.

He didn’t fully understand what he was waiting for, what Jack needed. Without the cues of Jack’s cock leaking at the head, or Jack fucking his mouth, this felt like an obscure art. He lapped at Jack in long strokes and exploratory short ones, drooling over his chin at the taste and the heat. He was hard against the bedcovers and rubbing himself on them, hazily imagining what it would be like to fuck the slick, wet heat of Jack’s cunt. Jack, though, was quiet where he would usually talk, Brock’s only direction an occasional gasp or a press or tug of Jack’s hands in his hair. At length he stopped and flicked his gaze up at Jack. Jack propped himself up on his elbow and looked back.

‘I don’t know--’ Brock swallowed hard and wiped at his chin with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t know how-- what you want.’ Jack eyed him like a disdainful, lazy cat and then, without warning, slapped him across the face. Brock, already on the edge of orgasm from excitement and shame, whimpered, and fucked his hips into the mattress, and came.

* * *

 Downstairs in the kitchen, Brock fiddled with a pile of spilled salt on the table, stroking it into a little peak and then drawing his finger through it to disperse the grains again. He couldn’t quite meet Jack’s eye. He felt loose and warm from his orgasm, mouth still filled with the taste of Jack. Opposite him, Jack lounged backwards in his chair with poorly-repressed irritation.

‘This is some bullshit,’ Jack said. He stirred his coffee too aggressively, and it slopped over the side of his mug. Brock rallied.

‘You didn’t give me any directions,’ he argued, which was true.

‘How fucking hard can it be?’

‘If you won’t--’

‘Didn’t you used to fuck women?’ Jack interrupted. He was a little flushed, suffering with a hint of frustrated arousal that was yet to fade.

‘That was a long time ago,’ Brock mumbled. He drew a spiral in the salt. ‘Maybe if I fucked you…’ he let it trail off into the silence. Jack raised an eyebrow.

‘You think that’s happening?’

‘Be a shame to waste the opportunity,’ Brock suggested.

‘Shame for _you_ , maybe,’ Jack said.

‘You might like it if we tried,’ muttered Brock, knowing how resentful he sounded and not caring. He flicked at the salt and some of it skittered across the table and into Jack’s lap. Jack whipped out a hand and grabbed Brock’s wrist.

‘How about you stop telling me what I fucking like and don’t like?’ he spat, and stormed out, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

Brock slept on the couch.

* * *

 Maria Hill was not Brock’s favourite person. Neither was Romanoff, for that matter, but at least he could respect Romanoff’s prowess in the field. She’d pulled them out of hot water a time or two, after all. Nothing he couldn’t have taken care of himself, but still; she was good at what she did and that counted for a lot. She wouldn’t top the list of people Brock wanted to have a beer with. Romanoff was too knowing by half. Maybe it was all the freaky spy training, or the Soviets messing with her mind when she was a kid, but there was always an aura about her like she knew everything about you. She had a wry little smile, a mocking twist of her full lips, and Brock always felt, seeing it, as if the joke was on him. Didn’t make any sense, because Barton wasn’t like that all. _He_ seemed all right, even if he seemed not to like the STRIKE guys much. Which, okay, they kinda had a culture. And a reputation. And Rogers was a preacher sometimes, but he was a decent commander and knew how to handle himself. Coulson was a cold fish, but the man was legendary, in a way that he probably wouldn’t approve of being gossip. It kind of made him more badass that he didn’t talk about it. Coulson would give you a proper dressing-down - bit like in the army. Made you feel like you had to live up to his standards, but they were good standards. He was a fair guy.

Hill, though, just seemed like a straight-up bitch, all SHIELD procedure and ice queen composure. Brock was pretty sure Hill hated him. He couldn’t say why, exactly, but whenever Hill was running an op they seemed to end up with some kind of issue in debriefs afterward, as if part of being in a STRIKE team wasn’t doing whatever it took at get the job done. Brock had been written up twice for inappropriate conduct towards other agencies in the field. So fucking what; he didn’t like the FBI goons, okay? And the CDC were bullshit. Wasn’t like it was a crime to tell some loser FBI guy where he stood in the hierarchy. It was Hill had picked it up on comms, he was sure, and reported him. (The only thing that could be worse, as it stood, would be if May was permanently stationed in DC. That woman was unnatural. No fucking soul. She made Brock shiver just to hear her speak. Hill might have you written up, but May would just have you shot.)

The worst part was that Hill and Romanoff knew each other, and liked each other, and spent a lot of time whispering in corners. He knew they hung out outside of work, as well. That sort of behaviour made a man nervous, never mind when Potts stopped over to see Coulson, or when Major Danvers dropped by, and all the women commandeered a cafeteria table, and talked shit about everyone behind their backs. Not that Brock had heard it, exactly, but he knew. He could sense it - all those smug smiles and little glances around the room. Brock was grateful that his team were all guys. Not because he was sexist or anything, but just because it made life easier. Less drama.

But now, to his abject horror, things were changed. The mystery of Jack’s sports bras - a trio of complicated, strappy things that had appeared suddenly on the third day after he got body-swapped - had been solved. Brock had made a casual comment about how kind it was of his mother to sort him out, and Jack had said, quite naturally, ‘Nah, Hill found ‘em. She knows a store that does unusual sizes.’ There was a black one with neon yellow piping, and a pale grey one with orange flashes, and one in plain navy blue with a discreet logo on one breast. Jack had a black and yellow motorcycle helmet, and he wore a lot of blue and grey. It could be chance, but whenever Brock was at the gym it seemed like all the women wore a lot of pink kit. Hill, then, had been _looking_ , she _knew things_ , and it felt like an enormous intrusion. Who the fuck was she, to know that kind of thing?  

And if Hill was machinating in secret, Romanoff was blatant about it. That, in itself, was unnerving - Natasha Romanoff being blatant about anything. It wasn’t honesty. Brock doubted she was really capable of it. So there was some reason for the little smiles - friendly smiles! - that she directed at Jack, and the way she’d pull him aside now and then for a quiet word. One afternoon he’d come into the cafeteria to see Jack and Romanoff sitting together quite companionably, eating soup. And they’d been chattering away in the gym, too, Romanoff showing him some fancy kicks and grappling moves. Romanoff never gave away her secrets. Or, never that Brock had seen. Until Wednesday, when, with his own two eyes, Brock had watched her demonstrate a move slowly, then at full speed, and then walk Jack through it with a few light, corrective touches. He had heard, with his own two ears, her friendly encouragement and the professional way she’d said, ‘Yes, you see - you can give it more power that way and make use of your glutes better.’ And then, very offhand, ‘Men tend not to expect it in the field.’

Today had been fairly quiet and Brock was feeling less put out about Jack’s new coterie of women friends. A slow start for Brock, with paperwork and some phone calls, and then an easy lunchtime session at the gym. A bit of sparring and some high-intensity work while Jack pummeled away at a bag. Lunch, just the two of them - Brock picked up good sandwiches from the place around the corner and they ate outside, sitting on a wall. In the early afternoon they had an appointment with the quartermaster to look over some new gear. Brock liked to get his hands on the new stuff first. It was often experimental and between him and Jack there wasn’t much they didn’t know about spotting possible problems before taking kit out in the field. Two nice treats for them today - a lightweight but surprisingly punchy pistol and a vicious, single-use mace spray that could take out a whole roomful of hostiles. Guns always made Jack happy, and seeing Jack humming away to himself and sighting down the barrel of the snub-nosed 9mm made _Brock_ happy.

All that happiness drained away, though, when Brock came back to the common area after a piss break to see Jack and Romanoff deep in conversation in a corner. Romanoff was demonstrating something with her little hands, turning them this way and that. Jack was nodding periodically and looking more fascinated than he had at the quartermaster’s. The sporadic conversation in the room dwindled as two men left, and Brock could hear, as he pretended to fiddle with the coffee machine, Romanoff’s speech.

‘... but that doesn’t work for everyone, so you can try some other things too. It doesn’t have to be difficult, for example--’ Brock pressed a button and coffee machine hissed and spluttered and drowned her out for a moment. He turned to the table and made to sit with his cup, but Romanoff was crooking her fingers upward, curling her index and middle fingers, beckoning. He walked over.

‘Yeah?’ he said, a little prickly, interrupting her.

‘No, not you,’ Romanoff said flatly, and waved him away like a tsarina dismissing a tedious courtier. Jack barely even glanced at him. He took his coffee and made for the door, thinking to go back to his office and do more paperwork. Jack could come to him.

‘... to have short fingernails,’ Romanoff’s voice floated after him, ‘and just start slowly.’

* * *

 Either Jack had been spending a lot of time surreptitiously reading the internet, or _someone_ had been giving him ideas. Suddenly, as if turning on a faucet, Jack had slid back into his old ways. His libido, temporarily hindered as it had been with the seismic change in his body, had returned. And more: he knew things, things that he only sometimes decided to share with Brock. The first hint of this had been on Monday morning, almost two weeks after he’d been zapped. Brock rolled out of bed and scrubbed at his face. He felt sticky and out of sorts. They had been drinking at the weekend and his hangover yet lingered, like a subtle remonstrance that he was too old to be barhopping with the rookies. Jack, as usual, was already in the shower. He was oddly quiet this morning - perhaps he was hungover, too.

The minutes rolled by, though, and the hour crept towards eight, and eventually Brock quit the bedroom and banged on the bathroom door.

‘You gonna be in there all fucking morning?’

‘Maybe!’ Jack laughed after an odd pause, during which the water ran louder for a moment and then quiet again. ‘Put breakfast on.’

Brock stamped downstairs, clattered louder than necessary. He ate a bowl of oatmeal leaning against the stove and left Jack’s in the pan - it’d be his own damn fault if his portion ended up gummy and disgusting. What the hell was he doing - washing his hair? When Jack bounced downstairs at quarter past eight, his hair _was_ wet. And when Brock got to the shower with barely enough time to scrub the sleep from his face, the water was running ice cold.

‘You’re such an ass,’ Brock bitched in the car, as Jack flung them through traffic with his usual disregard for the laws of the road. Jack just laughed; Brock wanted to be angrier, but Jack looked especially good today. His hair was growing out and he was letting it curl naturally instead of slicking it back in some small concession to femininity. He had a touch of a pink flush to his face, and if he stopped at a drive-thru for a breakfast sandwich having ignored the oatmeal, he also ordered a coffee and donut for Brock.

‘Hello, smiles,’ Hill said to Jack as they walked into the building, in step as always. And Jack smiled back - a real one. _Un-fucking-canny_ , Brock thought.

That was strange enough, but stranger still came that night. Brock was slumped in front of the TV watching one of those survivor guy programs. They were dumb, sure, but comforting in how formulaic they were. Because Brock was watching that, Jack had disappeared off to his workshop to tinker. Except, he wasn’t in the workshop at 10pm when the light was fading and Brock went out with a mug of coffee for him. Nor was he in the garage. In fact, all the lights on the ground floor were out, the house silent but for the humming of the pipes in the kitchen. A little lost, Brock took the mug upstairs, sliding his phone from his pocket.

And there was Jack, in the bedroom. Naked in the bedroom, and spread out on the bed gently backlit by the amber glow of the lamp on the far side of the room. The pillows were pushed to one side; he was flat on his back with his right knee tilted out, a little bent, and his head tipped to one side. He was facing Brock, but his eyes were closed and his lips parted. The covers were crumpled under his feet, pulled askew as if by sudden motion although he was still now. No; not quite still. His right hand moved in slow, lazy strokes between his legs. Jack was breathing a little faster than usual and sweat stood out on his breasts and belly. Then, as Brock watched motionless from the doorway, Jack tensed, and his breath caught, and his back arched and he was coming, open-mouthed and gasping and fisting his left hand in the covers. He subsided again after a moment, body relaxing back down in a sinuous wave. He rested his right hand on his belly; his fingers were wet.

‘Gonna charge you to watch,’ said Jack lazily, without opening his eyes.

‘I was just--’ Brock began, but he couldn’t finish. Jack grinned, white teeth and a wicked green gaze. Brock’s cock twitched in his pants and he had to stop himself from adjusting himself. ‘How long have you been… I looked for you, downstairs.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Almost ten.’

‘Mm,’ said Jack, thinking. ‘About an hour.’

‘Did you want to go to bed?’ Brock asked, very low, with his throat suddenly and embarrassingly drying out mid-sentence, making him swallow hard and stutter.

‘I’m already _in_ bed.’ Jack stretched his arms over his head until his shoulders clicked, arching his back. He was being sly, and Brock knew it, but it was working on him.

‘Want some company?’ Brock tried to sound casual.

‘Sure.’ Jack waved an airy hand at the easy chair in the corner, covered haphazardly in dirty laundry. ‘You can sit over there.’ Brock sat. He unbuckled his belt. ‘I don’t think so,’ Jack told him, ‘you’ll distract me.’

Jack was golden in the light and smooth and totally unconcerned with Brock watching him. His tits tipped outward, towards his arms - Brock wanted very badly to take them in his hands, his mouth - and his nipples were dark and tight. Jack sucked his fingers for a second and touched them experimentally to his right nipple. Then he pressed them to his cunt, slid them inside and tilted his hips up to meet them. Jack sighed as he stroked himself and he sank into the bedclothes as if into a warm bath. Brock had seen Jack jerk off, before; seen the way he fucked his fist in short, hard strokes, and how he bared his teeth right when he came, neck muscles cording. This was different, and subtler, and Jack was languorous and relaxed and made quiet sounds in his throat. Brock’s dick strained against his jeans and he bit his lip, resisted the temptation to touch in case Jack punished him by stopping.

So he watched, as Jack came again, and another time after that, and then once using both hands; fucking himself on his fingers and rubbing at his clit. That last, beautiful time he moaned out loud and his calf muscles tightened enough that they must have hurt, and Brock moaned too, shifting in his chair to rub against his pants. He was leaking and desperate by the time Jack finally beckoned him over.

‘Lie down,’ Jack ordered, and Brock slid onto the bed and rescued a pillow. Jack straddled his chest, one hand on the wall, and then walked his knees up until Brock’s face was bracketed by his thighs. Brock tried to plead with his eyes and Jack chuckled. ‘Yeah. Yeah, you can touch yourself. And stick your tongue out.’ Brock fumbled open his belt and zipper and pulled his cock out, and he knew what Jack wanted, knew that this - Brock on his back, Jack fucking his face - was something he could do. And if he wasn’t going to get Jack’s cock down his throat, choking him, then this would be almost as good. Jack’s weight over him, the same stifling urge to breathe and the hot smell of him and the slick, salt rush of his come on Brock’s face.

He stuck his tongue out, and Jack grabbed a handful of Brock’s hair and ground his cunt down with a low moan, and Brock almost came right there. He was barely touching his cock, right fingertips just skimming it, but his hips were straining up already. Jack fucked himself on Brock’s tongue first, slowly, so slowly, and then he rubbed off on it. Jack’s clit was a firm little nub on his tongue - Brock felt it now that he knew what to look for. He curled his tongue, trying to flick at it. Jack pulled on his hair.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ he panted, shifting his weight so as to limit Brock’s movement more. Brock squeezed his cock once, twice. He wanted to wait and see Jack come, hear him come, blow his load watching Jack get off. Jack was fucking his face now, hitching his hips over Brock’s tongue until the bed shook under them. Brock panted for breath through his open mouth, dizzy and light-headed. His tongue was almost aching and his jaw tight. Jack gave a shuddering moan and began tugging Brock’s head up by the hair to meet his clit. Then his thighs tensed, squeezing Brock’s face, and Brock jacked his cock right as Jack gasped, high and breathy, and caught himself against the wall with one hand. There was a thin, briny trickle over Brock’s tongue and he strained upwards greedily, lapping at Jack’s cunt as it pulsed hot against his lips. He wanted those aftershocks, pressed his face up to feel them and suck at Jack’s pussy lips. Jack let him, still riding him a little, and Brock came with a desperate cry, scrabbling at Jack’s ass with his left hand and sucking a red mark onto Jack’s inner thigh.

He was sweating and shaking, afterwards, his face and neck wet. Jack was half-slumped against the wall, tiny muscle tremors running through his thighs.

‘Eleven times - that’s all right,’ Jack said into his forearm, in a feat of understatement. ‘I could get used to this.’

‘Mm,’ Brock mumbled, already half-asleep.

* * *

 They were in the field for the first time since Jack got zapped, making a loose cordon around a warehouse and waiting for some small-time terrorist guy to show his face. After a little more than two weeks, people had mostly become accustomed to his new form. Brock was accustomed, by now, to getting Jack off; that had been an early lesson. He wanted to fuck, though, so badly that he was presently struggling to concentrate on his radio. It was becoming embarrassing.  

Jack was in combat boots and pants and a tight black STRIKE t-shirt and a navy blue bandana keeping back his hair, which was yet too long to slick back. _Someone_ had taught him to tie the bandana like Rosie the fucking riveter, knotted at the top with a jaunty tilt to the left. He was leaning up against the wall with one knee up, chewing on a matchstick like always, except the way he was leaning was arching his back and pushing his tits out. And the hem of his shirt was riding up just a little, and instead of flat muscle he had the slightest curve of belly. He looked over at Brock and grinned his usual grin and gave a slow blink. Jack had spent a good hour sitting on Brock’s face last night, grabbing his hair and grinding up on him until he got it right. The combat pants were doing nothing to hide Jack’s ass and thigh muscles, or erase the memory of their smooth, strong warmth under Brock’s desperate hands. Jack had said that if Brock didn’t get him off properly, he’d have to do it over again in the morning, then go to work without washing his face.

‘STRIKE? Do you copy?’ The operator’s voice was irritated. Brock snapped back to attention and dragged his eyes away from Jack.

‘Yeah, I’m here,’ he said, way more casually than he should. Petrov snickered in the background.

* * *

 ‘Hey, you,’ said Jack the next day, mock-coy as he appeared out of a side corridor and fell into step beside Brock. Brock was on his way to a briefing – SHIELD on the face of it, but containing three Hydra notables, including Pierce. His uniform was impeccable and his boots gleamed – he would be expected to give a comprehensive overview of current strategy in certain delicate international areas. He wasn’t nervous, precisely. He was past that, too sure in his command and his expertise, too battle-tested to be made anxious by a roomful of suits. Still, it was important, and some small part of his mind was quietly ticking over, strategizing. How best to present a report with the officious, moralising restraint preferred by SHIELD, while making clear the depth and breadth of his personal successes for Hydra? Bragging came naturally to Brock; politics less so.

‘Hey,’ Brock replied, eventually, realising Jack had spoken to him. Jack’s usual easy lope had transformed into a smooth, panther-like stalk not unlike Romanoff’s, but he still kept up easily with his long legs.

‘Off to the joint leadership meeting?’

‘Yeah,’ said Brock, trying to project calm assurance. Jack smiled. Brock found himself smiling back, a little unnerved.

‘People seem more comfortable when I smile at them,’ said Jack, in the most unlikely turnabout of circumstances imaginable. Jack’s smile was rarely considered reassuring by anyone with an amygdala. ‘I’m trying it out.’

‘It’s… nice,’ said Brock, cautiously. It was, almost. Brock didn’t interrogate the thought too hard. Everything about the past two weeks had been too fucking strange to analyse.

'I was thinking,’ said Jack, looking at Brock from under his newly long eyelashes. 'We should do something romantic.’ Brock’s boot caught on the floor and squeaked loudly, rubber on industrial linoleum. Romantic? Was this the oestrogen talking? Was Jack going to be into chick stuff now? If Brock said no, might Jack cry? Brock was on shaky ground, here, the foundations of everything he knew about relationships crumbling away underneath him. He kept smiling.

‘Okay,’ he said neutrally – surely that couldn’t be a wrong answer.

‘Good,’ Jack said. ‘You seem stressed.’ ‘Stressed’ was not a word Jack had uttered before, to Brock’s knowledge.

‘It’s been an odd week. And there’s this meeting. It’ll be fine, though. Business as usual, no problem, could deal with it in my sleep.’ Jack nodded, like he was really listening. This was – they were relating. Conversating.

‘I want to do something pleasant for you,’ Jack said. ‘You know, on account of the – the stress.’ His smile abruptly shifted into a much more recognisable, vicious grin, and the bottom dropped out of Brock’s stomach. He flushed hot, a quick thrill running through him.

‘Something—’ Brock wet his lips and tried again. ‘Something like what?’

‘Something real nice,’ Jack purred, voice warm and rich like some supermarket voiceover woman selling expensive chocolate. ‘Let me show you.’ He took Brock’s elbow, steering him in a sharp right into a vacant meeting room. It was one of the smaller rooms, big enough for maybe a dozen people, with a stingy little window and a narrow door. Jack kicked the door closed behind them and shoved Brock against the wall, hustling up against him. Jack’s eyes were bright and his lips, fuller and softer although still a touch chapped, were parted. Jack set his thigh against Brock’s crotch and wriggled in close.

‘I have – the meeting,’ Brock said, inarticulate and urgent. At least, he thought, Jack couldn’t just bend him over the conference table and – well, he _could_. He probably could. This was Jack, after all.

‘You’ve got fifteen minutes,’ said Jack. He popped open his belt buckle and eased his hand down his pants. He was wearing his regular boxers, and Brock could feel the outline of his hand sliding down between their bodies, between his legs, down to his – his – Brock swallowed hard; this was more exciting, maybe, than the outline of Jack’s cock would have been in his _other_ body. When Jack pulled his hand out, his first two fingers were wet, and then salty-slick when he pushed them between Brock’s lips. ‘Suck me,’ Jack ordered, and Brock did, hollowing his cheeks and rolling his tongue like he was sucking dick. Jack watched him, intent and greedy, and Brock angled his head forward and took Jack’s fingers almost down his throat. When Jack finally let Brock stop, there were only seven minutes for Brock to make it to the meeting. Any less and he’d have to run it.

‘I gotta go,’ he told Jack, waving his wristwatch. ‘C’mon.’ Jack eased up on him, but caught at his wrist before he could dash away.

‘I’m gonna kiss you after that meeting,’ Jack said, slowly and distinctly, holding Brock’s gaze with his own. ‘And if I don’t taste myself on you, I’m gonna punish you the minute we get home.’ Brock’s cock, more than half-hard, jerked reflexively. He fled, feeling rumpled, his mouth briny and watering.

* * *

 They were riding up to the nineteenth floor in the glass elevator that seemed to cling precariously to the side of the Triskelion. Nineteeth was office space, like most of the building, including the two rooms where SHIELD personnel wrangled STRIKE team paperwork. Brock, and Jack, and two of the new kids who needed to sign some papers. It felt a bit like babysitting, but this was part of the long, complex process of formally initiating new STRIKE members, so the presence of their commander and his second made it feel official. There was no official entry into STRIKE, per se; SHIELD was just too bureaucratic. It lacked the ceremony of Hydra, and Brock in particular felt that lack keenly. Commemoration, marking occasions, gaining acceptance among peers - these were the currency of the soldier, and Brock tried hard to deploy the same strategy in his own team. It was good for group cohesion. There were lots of little moments he could use, though; the end of their probation was one. Getting a permanent number for access to the quartermaster was another. And, today, making their first trip up to the administrative staff to sign off on their change in status.

The elevator stopped at the third floor, and Romanoff and Hill stepped in, both in their tac gear. They settled against the back corner together near Jack, Romanoff leaning against the glass wall and Hill standing with arms folded and stance wide, mirroring Jack’s posture. Hill would probably rather have pins stuck in her eyes than have anyone see her lean on anything. Brock tried to ignore them. They’d been thick as thieves, these past weeks. Always whisking Jack away and whispering to him in the hallways.

Romanoff had her phone out, flipping at the screen with her thumb. The blue light flickered against the metal of the elevator keypad; Brock could see it out the corner of his eye.

‘Look,’ she said quietly. Brock looked. She was tilting her phone over so Hill and Jack could see the screen. In unison, the two of them gave a little snort of laughter. Brock had to restrain himself from crossing the elevator in two steps and looking, too. The day was too bright for the screen to reflect on the glass. Perhaps Jack would tell him later.

* * *

 ‘It’s not _bad_ ,’ Jack said. He rubbed his back. ‘I mean, it’s not like I haven’t had worse.’ He cracked a yawn. ‘I’m just tired.’ Romanoff patted his arm with one of her tiny hands.

‘That’s perfectly normal,’ she said, consolingly. ‘Have a hot bath. It’s better after the first day.’

‘Ew,’ Brock put in. ‘C’mon. Does everyone need to hear this?’

‘We’re being very discreet,’ said Romanoff, frostily. ‘It’s you that’s making all the fuss.’

‘Not like you haven’t seen blood before, Brock.’

‘This is different,’ retorted Brock.

‘I wonder if Stark still has that ray machine,’ said Jack maliciously.

‘I could get you into the scientific storage areas to take a look,’ Romanoff said, with a nonchalant air. ‘JARVIS likes me.’

‘I can’t fucking believe this,’ Brock said. ‘I’m not even allowed an opinion any more.’

‘Here’s a thing you can have an opinion on, Rumlow,’ said Hill, coming up behind him and making him jump. ‘Paperwork. You’re a week behind and Fury wants your reports.’ She handed him a file and the three of them smiled at each other, as if they weren’t a bunch of cackling witches.

Brock had never hated his job more.

* * *

 Jack was having a restless evening, which meant that Brock was also having a restless evening. Usually, Jack was calm; he could tinker with a little piece of machinery, or read a book, or lounge with his feet up on the coffee table and his big Sennheiser headphones on all night. Tonight he was patrolling, pacing through the house. Sometimes he’d pause and check a window, or mess with his phone. They told you about that kind of shit at mandatory SHIELD wellbeing seminars. Brock did it sometimes, too. Some nights it took you like that, the need to check the perimeter or just be on your feet, to feel ready.

It was annoying. Brock understood, but it didn’t make the endless pacing any quieter.

‘Settle, would you?’ Brock said as Jack came back into the lounge and stared mindlessly at his bookshelf. Jack shrugged and tugged at a bra strap, adjusting things.

‘Can’t,’ he said.

‘You’re driving me crazy. I’m trying to finish up paperwork here.’ Brock gestured at the files spread out on the coffee table. Some of them probably weren’t supposed to be off SHIELD premises, but whatever - if SHIELD wanted him to spend time in the field and behind a desk, they’d just have to deal with it.

‘How hard can it be?’ Jack said. He traipsed across the carpet and cupped a hand against the window to peer outside, into the dark back yard.

‘Fucking hard when you’re making the floorboards creak and slamming doors and shit,’ Brock said. He threw the file on his lap to the floor with a slap.

‘Maybe the problem’s not the paperwork,’ Jack said, pulling back his top lip and showing his teeth in a nasty smile.

‘Maybe the problem is that you’re a fucking bitch,’ spat Brock, standing up. Jack was on him in a moment, kicking his legs out from under him. He hit the floor hard and it winded him, but he managed to wrench an arm free and take a swing at Jack. It was a glancing blow, catching him underneath the jaw, but it snapped his head back for a moment. Brock used the distraction to try to dislodge Jack’s weight, kicking out with a leg and trying to get leverage. His feet slid, his socks and the hardwood floors a bad combination. Jack knelt on him, one knee on the floor and one in his belly, and snatched one of Brock’s hands to the floor.

‘Let’s _talk_ ,’ Jack said in a mock-girly voice. ‘We never talk about anything, Brock. Oh, I know, let’s talk about your fucking attitude.’

‘My attitude?’ Brock sneered. ‘Give me a break.’

‘Yeah, your attitude. I’m a bitch, Hill’s a bitch, Romanoff’s a bitch. What, you gonna call my mom a bitch, next?’

‘No!’ Brock said, genuinely shocked. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Seems like you call every other woman a bitch,’ Jack said.

‘Why the fuck do you care? I mean, you’re not one, even if Romanoff and Hill want to make you their new little sister or their pet.’

‘They’re okay,’ Jack said. ‘I never had a problem with them. They do their jobs, and they’ve been good to me the past couple of weeks.’

‘Since when did you hang out with women, anyway?’ Brock said. Jack sighed, and waved a hand down his body.

‘Don’t make this about me. And anyway, I don’t, much, but I don’t have a fucking Freudian mommy issue like you do.’

‘I don’t either,’ said Brock, knowing he sounded sulky and not knowing how to stop. As if his mother had anything to do with anything. Jack let up on his arm and sat back onto his heels, with his thighs still bracketing Brock’s torso.

‘When was the last time you went with a girl?’ he asked, almost randomly. Brock thought about it

‘Just after Basic,’ he said, finally. ‘I was nineteen or twenty, maybe.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Nah,’ said Brock, and he snorted with derision. ‘Just girls into uniform.’

‘Lose your virginity to one of them?’ Jack asked like it was nothing at all.

‘No.’ Brock found himself blushing violently, probably crimson with shame. ‘That was earlier. High school.’ Jack leaned in close and dropped his voice.

‘Oh yeah? Did you fuck a cheerleader in the back of your car?’

‘She wasn’t a cheerleader,’ said Brock. He made a lukewarm attempt at freeing himself from Jack’s legs and Jack laughed and leaned on his chest with both hands. ‘C’mon,’ Brock complained, pushing at Jack’s forearms. ‘This is bullshit.’ He didn’t want to talk about it; especially not now, especially not with Jack, and especially not as the restraint and his embarrassment were starting to make him warm and aroused.

‘Did you go down on her?’ Jack pressed. ‘Did you make her squeal, your little girlfriend?’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ Brock said. It hadn’t been. It had been awkward, too cold in the car and hurried and fearful of discovery, and she’d lain there half-bored and half-nervous while he fumbled at her skirt, fumbled a condom on. Brock remembered how hard it was to get the angle right and push inside her, and the smell of the cheap, sugary alcohol that both of them had been drinking, and the squeak of leather against his knees. He’d hurriedly zipped himself up afterwards, and she’d slipped her underwear back on and sat rigid and cold in the passenger seat on the way home to her street. And then later still, the rumours, and the laughter, and her never speaking to him again.

Jack snapped his fingers in front of Brock’s face.

‘You went away for a second.’

‘It was… it was a long time ago, and I was a kid, and it was embarrassing,’ Brock said. ‘During and afterwards.’ He looked away. ‘I dunno, she told people. And then the next year I went off to Basic and the girls were easy, and it was easy to-- to take it out on them.’ He shrugged against the floorboards and closed his eyes, remembering. ‘Mom was pretty far gone by then with the drinking and she didn’t give a shit what I did. She didn’t care when I left.’

Jack rolled off him and lay next to him on the floor, nudging a foot up against his ankle.

‘Gonna blame everything on your mom and your high school girlfriend?’

‘You’re the one analysing me, Dr Rollins.’ Brock pushed himself up onto his elbows. ‘Like the worst fucking thing I’ve ever done is call you a bitch.’

‘Got me there,’ said Jack.

‘I want a drink,’ said Brock. He felt raw and exposed. He wanted the burn of the alcohol, the pleasant, warm fuzziness that followed. ‘We got any bourbon left?’

‘Probably,’ said Jack, still lying on the floor. ‘I got a better idea though.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Dr. Rollins is going to help you get over your fear of women.’

‘I’m not afraid of women,’ Brock said. He went to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He had to shout back to Jack in the lounge. ‘Please. Fair fight, no trickery, I could fuck Hill up.’

‘Different kind of fear.’ Jack gave him an alligator smile as Brock poured two drinks and set one on the floor. ‘Want to fuck me?’ Brock choked on his bourbon.

‘What?’

‘What I said. Want to fuck me?’

‘What’s the catch?’ Brock said, warily. There was usually something, with Jack; he loved his games.

‘No catch. I’m feeling generous.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Brock said, cynically. He sipped his drink, rolling the bourbon around his mouth. Jack got up and walked to the window to flip the blinds closed, then spread himself out on the sofa. He tugged his shirt off and dropped it on the floor.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘It’ll be good for you.’ He unbuckled his belt. ‘There’s rubbers in the nightstand upstairs. Hurry up or I’ll start without you.’

Brock couldn’t say no, now; he took the stairs two at a time and yanked open the tiny nightstand drawer. Inside was a purple and silver box - ribbed condoms, Jack had bought, and Brock had to huff a little laugh to himself. Downstairs Jack was already naked and Brock raced to catch up, his boxers catching on his half-hard cock. He threw Jack the box.

‘Ribbed for her pleasure?’ he said. ‘Seriously?’

‘Girls just wanna have fun,’ Jack said, and Brock groaned.

‘Did you plan this?’ Brock asked. He slid onto the sofa alongside Jack, who pulled him into a deep, long kiss.

‘All eventualities,’ Jack said against Brock’s mouth. They didn’t say anything for a long time after that, just rolled around on the sofa, hands and mouths everywhere like - yes, like being teenagers again, except it was Jack and everything was easy. It was warm in the room, and the couch was soft on Brock’s skin, and Jack was sucking at his neck and rolling his hips up against Brock’s thigh. Jack smelled different these days; not much, but enough that, if Brock closed his eyes, he felt like he was experiencing some clandestine meeting with a lover. And Jack’s hair was longer, because he was just letting it grow, for now. And his hands were a little softer and his skin smoother. Jack was wet, so wet, his pussy slick and warm and Brock sucked his fingers clean and kissed Jack and tasted his mouth too.

Time grew long; the only things Brock cared about was making Jack shudder and gasp, and feeling Jack’s fingernails on his scalp and his back, and Jack’s warm, strong grip on his cock.

After a time, Jack stretched for the box balanced on the back of the sofa and ripped open one of the condoms. He nudged Brock’s leg out the way and slicked it down over Brock’s cock with a firm, expert hand. Brock groaned, and groaned again when Jack manhandled him so that Jack was lying on his back with Brock over him, supporting his weight with one hand on the arm of the sofa. His cock nudged at the inside of Jack’s thigh and he bit his lip. Jack looked up at him, hands resting on Brock’s legs.

‘Do it,’ Jack said, like he was daring Brock. Brock swallowed hard.

‘Give me a second,’ he said. Jack was worked up and red-mouthed and Brock couldn’t make himself touch his cock to guide himself inside Jack, not with Jack looking like that and Brock so hard. He breathed through his nose, staring at the sweat at Jack’s clavicle.

He leaned forward, touching the head of his cock to Jack’s pussy, rubbing a little. Jack’s breath caught and he tilted his hips.

'Do it,' said Jack, more urgently this time. He pinched Brock's hip hard enough to sting. 'Don't be a fucking pussy.'

'Don't be-' Brock said, but Jack caught his hips with one leg and pulled him forward, and Brock slipped inside him with an ease that made him breathless. Jack's mouth opened, slack and surprised. He grabbed at Brock's hips and slowly, slowly, Brock sank into him until they were pressed right up against one another and Brock could watch Jack's heartbeat fluttering under the skin of his belly.

Brock had to steady himself for a moment. Jack was hot inside, hot and wet and he could do something with his muscles, clenching down on Brock’s dick. Jack’s legs were hooked over Brock’s and he was insistent, making Brock move, making him bite down on his lip so the stab of pain distracted him from the way his orgasm was already building in him.

‘Come on,’ Jack said, ‘Fuck me. Do it.’ Brock moaned and did, fucked him, tried to make it smooth and deep and regular. Jack angled his hips up so Brock’s cock was rubbing up inside him, slipping along the walls of Jack’s cunt and hitting something that made Jack gasp and arch up to meet Brock’s thrusts. Jack’s tits bounced as Brock fucked him and Brock leaned down on whim to lap at one nipple then the other, teasing them with his teeth just lightly, just how Jack liked usually. Jack caught his chin in a tight grip and made Brock look at him. ‘This making you feel like a big man?’ he said, his voice full of lust and a hint of laughter.

Brock doubled down, adjusting his position and fucking Jack harder, and Jack reached down and started touching himself, fingertips bumping up against Brock’s cock. His head was tipped back over the edge of the sofa, off-kilter, and he was panting, cunt pulsing around Brock.

‘God,’ said Brock, burying his face in Jack’s chest, between his tits. ‘Oh God.’ Jack made a little sound in his throat, low and shivering, and that was it; Brock started coming, fucked Jack through it and in a cloud of impossible lust forgot him, grabbed Jack’s hair in one hand and said, indistinctly, ‘Oh, baby girl, _yes_.’

Face down on Jack’s chest, limbs lax and heavy, it took a while to realise that Jack was shoving at him. pushing at his shoulder.

‘My turn,’ he said, and Brock knew then what he wanted, slid himself down between Jack’s thighs and buried his face in Jack’s pussy like a homecoming. As he did, Jack sighed and ran his fingers through Brock’s hair. ‘Baby girl,’ he said, amused. ‘You’re such a fucking queer.’

* * *

 ‘That’s it?’ Jack asked, turning the little device over in his hand. It was a small, silver box, with a dot of a red light on one side and a smooth indentation on the opposite edge. His thumb sat neatly in the indentation.

‘Fresh from Stark Industries this morning,’ said the twitchy young doctor from the first day. ‘I’m told Mr. Stark worked on it personally!’ Brock grimaced.

‘How does it work?’ Jack asked, turning it over and over in his hand like a charm or a totem. It was barely any longer than his thumb and it flipped end over end in an appealing, tactile way. There was a weight to it.

‘I won’t bore you with the technical details, but it should work locally and first, and more slowly than the original ray. It’ll start with a hormonal change and then the physical changes will come later. Mr Stark says that it should be a much less intrusive experience than getting changed the first time around.

‘So I just…?’ Jack held it to the side of his neck like a tranquilizer, mimed pressing a button. The doctor, rather unwisely, grabbed Jack’s wrist and redirected him to a spot just inside his hip bone.

‘It’s advised to target the ovaries,’ he said. ‘One on each side.’ Jack gave him a cold look.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this.’ He rested the device against his side, sliding up his shirt a little to press it to his skin. It made a whirring sound, as if powering up, and then clicked like a camera shutter. He repeated it on the other side, massaging at his skin afterwards. ‘Feels bruised,’ he said, in response to Brock’s quizzical look.

‘Well,’ said the doctor, examining Jack’s stomach. ‘That seems to have functioned as promised. Now we wait. We can keep you in a bay if you like, overnight.’

‘Nah,’ said Jack. ‘But I’m keeping this.’ He bounced the device in his hand. ‘Just in case.'

* * *

 Brock came slowly awake to the furnace-like heat of Jack’s body up against his, his hard weight and his muscle. Jack had rolled over from his side of the bed and hooked a leg over Brock, who, as always, was sleeping on his front. Before Brock could shift, Jack was over him and – _oh_ – hard against the back of his thigh.

‘Morning,’ said Jack, his voice gravelly and thick with sleep. His breath was hot and damp against Brock’s neck. Brock gave a sleepy moan and pushed back against him, not wanting to have to explain, to ask, to beg. By some curious transmutation, Jack’s body had turned back overnight, what soft curves he had had melting away into firm, lean muscle once more. Jack stretched out on top of him, pressing him down into the mattress, skin-on-skin.

‘Mm,’ said Brock, with no real coherence or point – just a little sound of pleasure at the rightness of Jack’s heavy body on him, his sharp sweat and musk strong in the air. Jack ducked down for a moment, dragging half the sheets with him. He nudged at Brock’s balls with his nose; moved up and pushed his tongue between Brock’s buttocks, licking at him, lapping until he was spit-wet and tingling with nervous excitement. Jack spat into his own hand, too, and there was a slick, wet noise and then Jack shifted his hands to the mattress by Brock’s shoulders. Brock knew Jack’d be looking down, watching. Watching as his cock rubbed along Brock’s ass, as he lined himself up and slowly pressed in.

Brock gasped into his pillow and grabbed two handfuls of the sheets. He bore down hard against the stretch of Jack’s cock, head pushing inside him without ceremony. It burned, stung; Brock gritted his teeth, huffing out tight, pained breaths. Jack slid inexorably into him, coming down onto his elbows so his chest pressed against Brock’s back. One of Jack’s hands found Brock’s hair, the other fell over Brock’s left hand, so their fingers interlaced just slightly. Jack stilled for a few seconds and let Brock pant a little and adjust, and then he started thrusting into him, shallow hitches of his hips at first and then more, and deeper, and more, until the biting pain morphed into a deep, hot pleasure. Brock moaned open-mouthed into the pillow and Jack hummed back, tugging Brock’s head up by the hair to such greedily at his neck.

‘That’s my precious little faggot,’ Jack said in his ear, very low, with savage affection. He bit at Brock’s neck, made him cry out and clench down around Jack’s cock. Jack groaned and his hand fisted itself around Brock’s. ‘Fuck,’ Jack said, in an explosive breath. ‘Fuck, I missed this.’

‘Me too,’ Brock managed to say, as Jack fucked into him slow and deep.

‘Yeah, you did. Tell me you missed my dick.’

‘I missed it,’ Brock mumbled, hiding his face in the bedclothes. Jack laughed. He pulled out for a moment, and Brock immediately reached behind him with his right hand, seeking him out. ‘No, please,’ he said, too quickly, but Jack was just spreading him open one-handed and spitting again before he slid back in. Brock made a ragged noise. Jack was rougher now, chasing his orgasm, and Brock was rubbing up against the sheets, close too.

‘Tell me again,’ panted Jack. ‘Make me believe you.’

‘I missed your cock,’ Brock said, running the words together. ‘I missed you fucking me—Christ, Jack, do it, do it, oh—’ he broke off, eyes screwed shut and letting Jack’s every thrust rub his cock on the sheet.

‘Aw, shit,’ Jack groaned, ‘Yeah, that’s my good little girl.’ And his voice hitched, and he came in Brock, and pulled out and jerked himself through it a little more, spattering Brock with his spunk, marking him. He slumped down, weaseled a hand under Brock’s right hip and stroked him – really, held his cock as Brock fucked his hand. Brock came with a breath that was almost a sob. Jack nosed at his neck. ‘That’s my good girl,’ he said again, and grinned.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Jack Rollins: Inamorata](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136479) by [Weirdlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdlet/pseuds/Weirdlet)




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